


backseat driving

by izzygone



Series: just rovinsky things [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roughness, light bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzygone/pseuds/izzygone
Summary: Sex in the Camaro, post-crash.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the next part in the Rovinsky aesthetics piece I'm writing. This one is based on "split lips."
> 
> Obviously, there's some blood involved but it doesn't really meet my standard of bloodplay.
> 
> Also, the last like 4 paragraphs of this were a real struggle for me to write for some reason, so I apologize if they suck.
> 
> Credit for the title goes to my irl friend, Tom.

The night after the ordeal, after he had crashed the Pig right into a telephone pole, Ronan went back to the scene of the crime.

The Camaro was still there, its crumpled passenger side still pressed to the half-destroyed telephone pole, the only thing apparently holding it up. Ronan had thought someone might have found it or maybe Kavinsky would have thought to call someone to tow it, but no. Who even used telephones anymore? Maybe the lines on this pole were dead, anyway, and that’s why nobody came out. Maybe no one had noticed the disruption in calls yet. Maybe the line was fine, even though the pole wasn’t. Whatever it was, no one had bothered the Camaro yet.

Ronan knew he have to. He’d have to arrange to get it towed or something. The Pig, though he’d replaced it, was still Gansey’s, still registered under his name and someone would come knocking about it eventually.

So yeah, he’d have to move it. But not now, not _yet_. For now, he could admire it. It was beautiful, even more so in its destruction. The hood was shredded to pieces, the windshield a spiderweb dotted with punctures from the night horror’s claws. And there was blood. A surprising amount of it, from where Kavinsky had shot out the night horror a few more times than strictly necessary, turned brown and dark from hours exposed in the hot Virginia sun.

It was gloriously sexy in its ruin. Ronan walked right up to it, ran his fingers over the twisted metal that was once the smooth roof of the car. It was still spotless orange in most places — except, of course, where the night horrors had run it through.

The car had been a bitch to get in and out of even at its peak, only two doors, ceiling too low so even with the front seats flipped down, it was nearly impossible to get into the back. A small piece of Ronan (well, maybe not _that_ small) had always wanted to know what it’d be like to get fucked in that back seat, pressed against the worn leather seats and no where to go and nothing to do but take what he was given.

When he’d first met Gansey, it’d been him he imagined bending over for on those seats. Then, briefly, Noah, then Adam. 

Never Kavinsky. 

Well. Maybe _now_  Kavinsky was on the list. Something about this grotesquely beautiful, mangled machine made him think _this place belongs to him_. Kavinsky would always rule dark parking lots, the space outside the light, the abandoned fairgrounds, and now _this_ , this car’s grave. 

Ronan heard the growl of another car approaching, someone coming around the bend, about to expose his little reverie, and, just like that, like he’d pulled it from a dream: Kavinsky’s flawless white Mitsu shining in the darkness as it approached. K stopped it on the the road, right beside the ruined Camaro just like he had the night before.  

And just like the night before, Kavinsky got out and approached the Pig, casual, “We should set it on fire." 

Ronan stared back at him. Was this a dream? “I thought I said —"

“I don’t give a fuck what you said. Sometimes, when you need something, you don’t get a choice," Kavinsky’s voice was ice but even that felt like a revelation. He wasn’t over what Ronan had said. “We gotta destroy this evidence."

Ronan nodded his assent, but he didn’t move toward action. He couldn’t stop running his fingers over the cooling metal. It’d been in the sun all day, but all that warmth had faded with the night. Not unlike Kavinsky. They’d been all fire and rage this morning but now… now they were looking at a thing that was not just dying but actually dead and Ronan thought that probably meant less than he felt it should. 

He didn’t really know what the fuck he was doing or why, but he pulled open the driver’s side door. The lever on the seat still worked, though it didn’t fold up as far as it might have since the dash had moved a few inches closer with the crash. Still, he managed to slide into the back. It was cramped, but lucky he was never a bulky guy. Fighting kept him fit enough, but he’d never put on any real weight. And, of course, Kavinsky never had either.

At first, Ronan thought this was it, he was going to lie out on this sticky leather by himself, and Kavinsky was going to set the Camaro on fire even with him in it. Ronan took his shirt off and threw it out the now-open drivers side door. He waited. Nothing. After a few minutes, he did the same thing with his jeans. That’s when Kavinsky finally appeared in the door frame. He was still wearing his gaudy Guccis even though it was nearly pitch dark except the glow of a street light streaming down behind him. Then he climbed into the back, too, shoving Ronan flat against the seats and sliding between his legs, positioning himself between Ronan and the concave passenger side, his back almost pressed against twisted and exposed metal jutting out.

Ronan licked his lips. One carefully planted, decisive kick, and he could impale Kavinsky on the shredded bits of this car. Above him, K threw his glasses off and grinned down. His eyes were all fire and defiance and challenge, so Ronan balled up a fist and shot it straight up, striking with the aim to wipe that grin right off. Kavinsky rolled with the punch, not even fighting the impact. His lip split and started to bleed, and he brought his thumb up across it, inspecting the blood, licking at it a little before bringing his hand back down in an open slap across Ronan’s face. 

Ronan didn’t bleed from it, though a piece of him wanted to. Instead, he laughed. “Again."

So K did it again. Another hard, nothing-held-back slap right across Ronan’s face. It stung and Ronan could feel the heat as his face flushed, felt his cock jerk and pulse where it was pressed so close to Kavinsky’s still-clothed crotch.

“Again."

Kavinsky’s hand came down another time, then another, open palmed, hard enough to leave a mark, again and again and _again._ Each time, it burned like a flogging and Ronan arched. It was filthy and humiliating and he was so fucking hard. He could feel Kavinsky was, too, could feel their cocks rubbing against each other with each reach of K’s arm.

Ronan was way past gone by the time K stopped. His whole face was flushed red, and he could feel it creeping down his neck, across his body, the blistering hotness of the abuse. He felt drunk with it, out of his body like this was all a dream. Without really thinking about it, he grabbed Kavinksy by the sleeves of his dirty tank top, just like he had last night but from such a different position, and pulled him down so their lips finally met. K’s eyes went wide, then shut, kissing just as hard as he’d slapped Ronan’s face. The split in his lip widened with the pressure, and Ronan could taste blood between them. He probably should have liked it a lot less than he did, but nothing he could do about it in the moment except grind up against Kavinsky harder, trying to take the edge off.

Then K pulled back, forcing Ronan down against the rough leather of the seat and bracing himself against Ronan’s bare chest, fingers automatically fanning out and catching at Ronan’s nipples, earning him a harsh, wet moan. At that, Kavinsky grinned again, almost manic as his fingers curled, twisting and making Ronan buck and moan and want to cover his face with his hands. Kavinsky was never gentle, and he was holding nothing back, which was both good and so, _so_ bad and Ronan hurt all over and he was _absolutely_  going to come from this and that was sort of a problem because he still had a goal to achieve here. 

“Fucking. Tease.” He managed, gritting his teeth against the pain and bringing his fist up to Kavinsky’s face again. This time the blow glanced off. He was in no shape for a fight, and it earned him a fresh slap, this one no harder than the rest but more painful since his cheeks had started to cool from the earlier blows. Ronan bit down on his lip, tasted blood, not sure if it was his own or K’s. Not that he gave a single fuck.

This time, he didn’t waste time, just reached down, pressed the shape of his fist against Kavinsky’s dick, earning him a ragged moan and a litany of Bulgarian curses.

“Yeah,” Ronan heard himself saying, “Yea _h_ ,” because Kavinsky had knocked his fist away and was in the process of lowering his zipper, pulling his cock out. Ronan was flat against the seat, too small even before half the car was mangled by the pole, and before he could even bother with the tangle of limbs that would result in any attempt to remove his boxers, he felt Kavinsky’s fingers grip at the seam of one side. And just like that, with one smooth motion, the Armani turned to shreds in K’s hands, exposing Ronan’s ass and dick to cool air and making him hiss as K’s fingers wrapped around him, bringing their cocks painfully together and _thrusting_ , making Ronan choke as he tried to get words out. “We need —"

Kavinsky interrupted, groaning in frustration and letting go of them both, “Yeah, _fuck_ , yeah I know.” He looped his arms under Ronan’s knees and tugged him up, pulling him so his ass was propped by the bump between the seats created by the driveshaft running along the underbody of the car. Ronan felt hot and exposed and like he might implode if he didn’t get something inside him soon, _now_ , thanks. Then K dragged his fingers back up Ronan’s body, tweaking his nipples as he went, earning a pained yelp before shoving those fingers down Ronan’s throat. Ronan almost gagged but then went to work, slobbering all over two fingers, thinking _this is crazy_  and _hurt me hurt me hurt me_. 

Then, in a flash, those fingers went from fucking Ronan’s mouth to rubbing, pressing against Ronan’s hole and — _holy fuck_ , was this happening right now? Was Ronan doing this? Letting this happening? What the fuck was he thinking — and then two of Kavinsky’s fingers forced their way inside him, and _yep_ , that was _it,_ he was doing this. They were doing this. In the corpse of Gansey’s most prized possession. 

Which Ronan had _stolen_  and then _destroyed_.

Honestly, Ronan couldn’t think of a better place for this. He spread his legs as wide as he could, though there _wasn’t_ — there just wasn’t enough _space_  in this goddamn car and _fuck_ Kavinsky’s fingers were slick with spit and not much else and it burned and felt so _good_ and it wasn’t _enough_.

“We need —“ Ronan tried again, embarrassed by the crack in his voice, because Kavinsky was inside him and rubbing and there was this spot he would hit every third stroke or so and it made Ronan’s vision light up like staring directly into a fire. 

“Yeah, I fucking _know._ ” Kavinsky sounded exasperated. Ronan couldn’t even make out his facial expression, everything was shadows and dark and he closed his eyes and not even realized — and he opened them as Kavinsky’s fingers withdrew, making him _itch_  to get them back inside him and he might have said something except K was forcing Ronan’s leg higher, making space and digging around in his jeans. Ronan’s cock smacked wetly against his stomach with the movement and _fuck_  he hated himself for praying Kavinsky had been a hopeless idiot and thought to bring lube. 

Finally, Kavinsky pulled something from his pocket. A tiny, clear oval pill. Ronan blinked up at him, a little frustrated, “Now is hardly the time for your little drug habit —"

“Shut the fuck _up_  goddamn —" K let out another long slew of Bulgarian curses and some English, and something that sounded suspiciously like “I dreamt this for you, ungrateful motherfucker—" but Ronan couldn’t really be sure. Until K brought the pill to his lips, and gave it a lecherous lick. From there, it traveled from his tongue to Ronan’s hole via wet fingers and Ronan was about to protest _except_  — it was already inside him and it _wasn’t_ a pill _._ Ronan was instantly wet, drenched from the inside.

A pill full of lube. Of course it was. 

Kavinsky was a hopeless idiot and Ronan didn’t have the strength or heart to explain how little this was all going to mean later.

And it didn’t matter because K was scum, but he was going to fuck Ronan soon _(now?)_ and Ronan might have felt bad about using literally anyone else, but Kavinsky wasn’t likely to complain. Especially if Ronan didn’t let him — he reached down, finding K’s cock, jutting out, hard and long and _yeahhh_  K was scum but who was Ronan to say he deserved better?

Kavinsky all but growled as Ronan’s hot grip tightened around him, thrusting into his fist so hard, Ronan rocked back, his head smacking against the unforgiving plastic of the interior panel by the Camaro’s door, causing his vision to blacken and his cock to twitch feebly. One of his legs was pinned against the seat back, but the other was available to him and he used that to latch onto Kavinsky, pulling him closer and guiding his cock all the way. The lube had done its job and now he wanted — no, _needed_. It was not optional at this point.

And then Kavinsky was inside him. It wasn’t slow and it wasn’t gentle, not that Kavinsky could ever be mistaken as either of those things. Just one second, Ronan was empty, barely stretched by two fingers, and wet, _so wet_  like the lube was multiplying, and then _full_. So full, Ronan had to shut his eyes against the burn and ache, had to dig his fingernails into his palms to prevent the orgasm looming. Above him, Kavinsky was producing a low rumbling noise from his throat, something deep and primitive, not unlike the purr of a very pleased and very dangerous wild cat. Ronan kept one leg wrapped around Kavinsky’s back, holding him tightly so he wouldn’t move and cause Ronan to come so embarrassingly fast, he’d never live it down. But K seemed to be in his own kind of private hell because he wasn’t even _trying_  to move. He was shaking a little, though, trembling, and part of Ronan preened a little at that. _I did this, I've_ broken _you_ , he thought, a little deliriously.

After a minute, because he was an asshole with a death wish and because he felt maybe, just _maybe_  he wasn’t about half a breath away from coming anymore, Ronan groaned, “Are we going to get to part where you fuck me anytime soon? Because it’s past my bed time and —" And then K’s hands found his throat and _pressed_. Ronan sputtered, his mouth opening comically, gaping as he gasped for air.

And that’s when Kavinsky finally started moving, punctuating each thrust with a quick tightening of his fingers around Ronan’s throat, “What’s that, slut? I can’t hear you —" He leaned forward, forcing his dick so deep, Ronan arched just a little, and bending forward so his face was so close, Ronan could feel a fresh drop of blood hit his face.

Still gasping, vision half-white from lack of air, all Ronan managed was a raspy, breathless, “H _arder_."

At that, Kavinsky sat back again, grinning, one hand holding fast around Ronan’s throat, the other reaching up to brace against the roof for leverage. And then he delivered on Ronan’s request.

Ronan couldn’t do much except this: lie back and take what he was given. His feet kept scratching uncomfortably against the contorted metal of the passenger side, but fuck all if he could do anything about it. His strength was drained both by Kavinsky’s constricting fingers at his throat and from the terrible, blissful struggle of holding himself back, alternately biting his lip and clenching his fists to stave off the orgasm hiding between one wild thrust and the next.

Ronan was pretty sure he was going to pass out, whether from the looming orgasm, the lack of air, or the pure, raw knowledge that he’d never experience this level of abuse anywhere else or _ever again_ , he didn’t really know or care. In the morning, he’d be ugly and bruised and unable to sit right or look any of his friends in the eyes, but not now, not _yet._

Now, he was going to force his eyes open and suck in deep breaths whenever K’s grip loosened enough for him to do so and use what strength he had to _fight back_. Make Kavinsky lose his fucking mind, like Ronan felt he was every damn day.

So Ronan twisted, freeing his leg from where it was pinned against the seat and hooking both legs around Kavinsky’s back, using leverage to pull him in, pull them closer and meet each and every  thrust. Above him, Kavinsky moaned, his movements stuttering. Ronan grinned, _yeah_ , because K wasn’t the only asshole with moves. So Ronan flexed his muscles, clenching around Kavinsky's dick, making them both groan from the borderline painful pleasure of it. Kavinsky thrusts were getting wild, and Ronan knew that was his doing, he was really making Kavinsky lose his mind, if there was enough space in here, he'd flip them, get K under him and fucking _use_ that cock.

Suddenly, Ronan could breathe. Kavinsky had let go of his throat and that meant - oh _fuck,_ Kavinsky's hand was around Ronan's dick before he could even blink. It was terrible. And perfect. And _fuck_ , Ronan was going to come. K wasn’t even going to get the chance to jack him off because fuck _everything_. Ronan reached up again, fingers automatically twisting in the straps of Kavinsky’s tank top, and _pulling_. K let go of the roof of the car and went down, his hand getting trapped between them and _squeezing_ , making Ronan grunt as their lips met, not quite a kiss, more a battle that Ronan won, biting down on K’s lip hard enough to coax more blood from the split in his lip and that was _it_. Ronan felt it when Kavinsky came, his dick twitching wildly, flooding him and it was _that_ , the deliciously dirty knowledge that Kavinsky was _ruining him_  that had him spilling over K’s trembling fist.

After, it was a bit embarrassing how they peeled themselves out of the car, half-tripping out of the too-narrow space. Ronan was naked, and he made a vain attempt at cleaning himself up with the t-shirt he’d thrown out of the car and left that and the scraps of his black Armani boxers in the back seat of the car. He slid into his jeans, his cock twitching half heartedly at the knowledge of how filthy these jeans were going to be. 

Then K took a pill and came back from dreaming holding a molotov cocktail, flame already lit. They didn’t exchange a single word, just sat on the hood of the white Evo and watched everything burn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm the-real-izzygone on tumblr and I need constant prodding so don't be scared to bug me there if there's something you want me to write ;)


End file.
